


The Hideous One

by scribeofmorpheus



Series: The Forgotten Skirmish and Other Lost Tales [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Bountyhunting is a Dangerous Profession, Gen, Hard Boiled Detective Work, In Medias Res Beginning, Lore linked to The Rebel Queen, Outer Rim Planets, Soren's Blade (cameo), The Search to Find Baby Yoda, Trackers and Swindlers, post season one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26525398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribeofmorpheus/pseuds/scribeofmorpheus
Summary: The Razor Crest is shot out of the sky by a forgotten ghost ship thought lost to the war on Mandalore.Mando is separated from Baby Yoda, Cara Dune and Greef Karga during the crash.On a hostile planet, untrustworthy locals and the threat of debt keeps Mando on his toes.Seeking the aid of T'Shankma, the Hideous One, Mando sets out to get his son back. At any cost.Meanwhile, orbiting above them is a greater threat, the Basilisk of Ankhural.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Din Djarin & Cara Dune, Din Djarin & Greef Karga, Din Djarin & Original Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Forgotten Skirmish and Other Lost Tales [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1437391
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Welcome to Redport

**Author's Note:**

> This series will have loose ties with another Star Wars fic of mine, but only in regards to setting up backstory for the Basilisk of Ankhural. Can be read as a stand-alone.

The Razor Crest’s wings were shinning silver with the light of day and on fire from the atmospheric fall. The front of the ship began nosediving towards an unnamed planet’s surface in the Outer Rim. The ship that shot them out of space and into the planet’s atmosphere, Soren’s Blade—a type L-Class starship of Mandalorian make that stopped being rolled out after the war—didn’t follow after them. That was the only piece of good news,

“Mando!” Cara Dune shouted from the other end of the Razor Crest. She moved slow against the turbulent wind washing through the tear on the ship’s hull. “Hold on!”

Mando’s breathing was frantic under the helmet. The unassisted descent of the ship lifting his body as if it was weightless. He was holding on by the graces of a loose cable-tie.

Greef was holding the child fast to his chest, hand shaking with a death grip on a ladder rung.

Cara managed to move two steps forward, hand holding onto a side panel for grip. The wind flooding into the ship was growing too strong. She slid back just as Mando’s grip on the cable loosened.

“Mando!” Cara shouted, arm reaching out. She was too late—too far. Mando was flung from the Razor Crest and out into the unknown.

“Ugghhh,” Mando’s neck was stiff when he turned it at slight angles. His arm was prickling like pins and needles from the lack of proper circulation under the weight of his armour. One of his toes throbbed with an unnatural heat. He rolled onto his back and sighed. Deeply.

A trail of black smoke touched the horizon. Mando’s eyes snapped open, adrenaline soaking his bruised body.

 _The Child!_ He staggered to his feet, astonished he hadn’t broken anything from his fall, and made his way to the spot behind a canyon that had the darkest cloud of smoke. In the purple-red sunset, four moons could be seen clearly. Each in its own phase. A corona of light shining behind the blackest, fullest one. The planet's sun was old, a giant unwelcoming star waiting to collapse.

The Razor Crest was in terrible condition. Not scavenged beyond repair like the Jawas had once done, but not pretty either. She’d need a good mechanic. A piece of shielding fell off. Mando paused, fingers ready at the blaster hilt. Then a fuel line exploded and Mando was thrown on his ass. Again.

The Razor Crest would need _two_ good mechanics now.

With a grunt, Mando picked himself up and ran to search the remains of the ship. “Cara! Greef! Anyone!”

No answer. He had to stop and take a breath. Gather his wits. Let his training take over.

First, he searched for tracks. Any signs of vehicles or enemies or strange creature markings. Lateral lines meant drag marks. Collected and dispersed prints meant multiple hostiles; collected were usually tribes or locals, dispersed were military—tactically trained. He hoped for the former.

A set of irregularly spaced tracks that started a few meters away from the Razor Crest were the only ones he could find. Going on instinct and ignoring emotion, he chose to follow one lead rather than none.

The tracks were wide and far apart. Whatever made them was either very large and oddly silent or it was fast and hopped.

The tracks led him back towards the canyon, and when he was lured into the mazelike structure, with intricate forking paths and identical layouts, he lost them.

Mando felt a tingle in his spine. Not quite the same calibre as fear, more of an instinct. Someone had eyes on him.

 _No sudden movements,_ he reminded himself.

Something moved on the edge above. Pebbles knocked against the canyon walls and echoes out. A sound of rushing sand coming from one forked path. One pair of footsteps was multiplied into many. Uncountable. It could have been one person or several. In his peripheral, he caught a glimpse of a creature. It was tall, fur the colour of a pasty grey. Humanoid with two arms and two legs, but a strange metal contraption around the face—tubing and wire mesh forming a sort of breathing apparatus underneath the hairy exterior. Pin-pricks for eye holes. A long stick in one of its hands.

Mando unholstered his blaster and aimed it at the last spot he saw the creature.

“Huh?” The creature was gone as if it had been imagined. A skitter and a breeze and suddenly more rocks came tumbling down. This time behind him.

Mando swivelled and pointed his blaster where the sound emanated from,

A wailing cry that sounded like a whistle of an old crone and a trick of the wind slinging a thousand angry hornets resonated from the dark corners of the canyon. It was unsettling and loud. His helmet amplifying the sound in its confined metal space. Mando looked around, disoriented, and refrained from bracing his head in pain.

The sound was coming from every pathway except one. He ran for it, towards the quiet, towards a previously concealed settlement.

The settlement was formed by clay huts in the residential areas. Colourful tapestries and cloth decorating each house for distinction. Vines and flowers growing through pockets moulded into the walls. It was like a street made up of giant flowerpots.

The market areas looked different, industrialised. More metals in places; metal doors in place of grass mat weave, metal light fixtures running on solar rather than oil lamps; and even the odd moisture farming equipment. A few speeders were littered about, old-world and slow by the looks of them. There were many six-eyed, blue-green scaled creatures hitched to posts serving as the planets mules. A mix between feline and reptilian. Flamboyant feathers made up the manes of the males.

Mando noticed several ships parked in the more industrial area. Sound of a blacksmith and droids busying the atmosphere. A port of sorts. Most likely favoured by pirates. The important thing was that if ships made port here, mechanics made credits.

The canteena was a long hut decorated with too many tapestries. It was an eyesore of clashing patterns. The windows were shielded from the light by more grass mats. A low thrum and strange flute-like music sung to Mando’s ears of civilisation. When Mando walked towards the entrance, a bounty hunter marched out with an unconscious Cathar soldier on her shoulder. She tipped her hat, recognising they were of the same trade, and made for a speeder parked around the corner.

 _This is one of those towns,_ Mando thought. _Best keep a low profile._

The canteena was filled with all manner of riff-raff. None had even batted an eye when he walked in. That was a new feeling—a strange feeling.

Mando walked up to the bartender and slid a few imperial credits towards the lanky alien. “I’m looking for a tracker. A good one.”

The bartender pocketed the credits and poured a shot of fluorescent pink liquid. He said one word, tongue clicking in a foreign dialect: “T’Shankma.”

“T’Shankma?” Mando said without the accent. The bartender sneered at his poor pronunciation.

A feminine voice belonging to a Twi’lek interjected, “It means Hideous One.”

Mando turned his head. The Twi’lek was old, much older than him anyway. Skin as green as moss with red tattoos growing in number with the thickness of her arms. A coy tongue running across teeth sharp as razors. She was dressed in apparel more suited for camouflage on Ryloth. Her face held the cocky grin of a swindler with a concealed boot-knife to match, Mando noticed.

“Fenkili,” she introduced herself with an old Rylothian salute. Mando hadn’t seen that used by many Twi’leks. “Welcome to Redport, outsider.”

“Redport?” Mando was a little underwhelmed by the town’s name. His knowledge of the Outer Rim territories and all the back-alley spaceports didn't come in handy this time. _This planet really is as familiar as a rancor's ass._

“It’s easier to say than the native name,” Fenkili nudged her head at the bartender.

On cue, as if they’d practised this exchange a hundred times, the bartender said: “Inkwenkwezembomvu-izibuko.”

“Right,” Mando said. “Redport.”

Fenkili chuckled, downing the pink drink that was meant to be his. Then her fingers moved around the grooves of the mudhorn sigil on his shoulder plate. “You need a tracker, I know where to find one. For a price, Mandalorian.”

Beneath his helmet, Mando narrowed his eyed. He didn’t trust Fenkili as far as he could throw her. He didn’t have many options either. Desperation usually made for a bad bedfellow. “What will it cost me?”

Fenkili grinned, sharp teeth more threatening than any weapon she could wield, “A job.”


	2. T'Shankma

“Should I bother asking what the job is?” Mando said as he followed Fenkili to her rented mounts. She didn’t saunter, her walk demanded space—a wide berth. She carried herself with an edge, not the peacocking kind like some untrained pirate who learned to pull a trigger in a bar fight. Her edge was purposeful, honed.

A dust storm brewed on the far edge of the landscape. Maybe a day or two out from hitting the settlement. Nevertheless, Fenkili still had to pull up her face conforming mouth guard.

“A legitimate salvage,” she answered with verve.

Mando’s lips pulled up at the corners, “So, it’s theft then.”

“Think of it as reclamation of lost properties.”

Mando didn’t need to look at Fenkili to know she was smiling. She certainly had a way of making words work for her agenda. He was also relieved. Stealing meant a little distance from murder jobs, which meant less danger. It wasn’t like he only had himself to think about now.

Mando looked to his side, his mind used to having the little one in his cradle tethered behind him. His heart sank when he remembered why he was with Fenkili in the first place.

 _Get a tracker. Find the Child and Greef and Cara. Repay Fenkili with her heist job. And then…?_ Mando thought of what the future held. It was a guttural punch to the stomach when he realised he didn’t like how ambiguous it looked to his eyes. _As long as The Child is safe._

Fenkili spoke to a Jawa that had been sleeping by a hitching post. She slipped him some credits and he untied the ropes on the mounts.

Fenkili hopped onto her saddle, choosing the male mount. A part of Mando knew it was because the creature’s mane complimented the vibrant dyes of her attire. She had a dramatic streak it would seem.

“That one is yours,” Fenkili said as the Jawa handed Mando the reigns. “Saberbacks are the best way to get about. Yours is a female. Be careful. They tend to be more temperamental.” She added with a lick of her lips.

Mando swallowed, thinking back to his adventure with the Blurg. He opened his palms to seem docile in the face of the female saberback’s narrowing eye-slits. She shuddered, reptilian scales opening and closing in a way that made Mando think of the Razor Crests wing flaps. The creature shook its shoulder muscles and hunkered low, as if ready to pounce.

“She likes you,” Fenkili said before yanking her reigns and yipping so her mount would start moving.

Mando’s mount purred and closed her eyes, he took that as a sign of acceptance and climbed onto the saddle.

They rode in silence—both the saberback’s and Mando and Fenkili. The terrain looked familiar, he realised they had taken an alternate route back into the canyons. In the dark, the canyons held an eeriness. It felt like a graveyard with no tombstones to mark for the dead. He didn’t notice his hand was pre-emptively resting atop his blaster.

“Relax, the canyons are quiet at night. This is the kind of planet where darkness is your friend, _friend_.” Fenkili said.

Mando remembered the piercing wail from earlier. “Is there something that _should_ be feared during the day?”

“Yes,” Fenkili answered. “The planet.” After a second’s pause, she continued: “Most of the planet’s creatures are diurnal. The nights are too cold to hunt, see. So they hibernate. There’s a legend that the reason is because the planet's creatures await to see god.”

“A god?”

“A sun-eater. I’ve seen the local cave drawings of it. A hideous eye that saps from the sun. Quite the tale.”

“Hmmm,” Mando ended their conversation.

After a nights ride, when the sun peaked over a rock formation to the south, Mando and Fenkili came about a small farm. A saberback was grazing on some pasture watered by condensation drippers. A water tank was overflowing, the borehole pump still cranking on. Beneath it, several fat, flightless birds squawked under the pauper’s waterfall. The main hut was made of different infrastructure than those he’d seen. Wood and clay composite, a roof of thatch that was unnecessary since there was already a clay ceiling present. Childlike drawings decorating the clay areas. They were undoubtedly done by a child when the hut was being constructed. That thought gave Mando some ease.

Flowers and vegetation bloomed from every concealable crevice; growing out of old pilot helmets, engine piping, a creature’s skull and most alarming of all, a giant snake's intact skeleton that formed a type of fencing. A wind chime made of bird bones and junk clanked with the wind.

“What is this place?” Mando asked as he dismounted.

Fenkili removed her mouth covering and made a tongue trilling noise in place of a whistle—an intimate, tribal shout. There was no reply, but Mando guessed that was more of a knock than a call. She gestured for him to go towards the house.

“T’Shankma,” was all she said.

Mando dismounted. His saberback purred, bobbing its head. He took that as a sign to approach cautiously.

He banged on the door, lightly. The urge to draw his weapon pulled at his gut. He took a glimpse over his shoulder, Fenkili was leaning against the snake-bone fence, legs crossed and hands working a twig between her teeth. Seeing her relaxed posture, he ignored his instinct to be armed.

With a mechanical groan, the door opened and out stepped the grey-furred creature he had seen in the canyons. Now that they stood on the same ground, he noticed the creature was only a few inches taller thanks to the volume of long fur on its head.

“T’Shankma?” he asked.

Fenkili stifled a laugh.

The creature lunged. Suddenly, Mando was in combat. T’Shankma—the creature—was surprisingly light on its feet. Twisting, jumping and using its memorised layout to its advantage. Mando reached for his blaster and T’Shankma snapped a stick from the base of the thatch of the hut. It was thick enough to use as a weapon. T’Shankma knocked the blaster out of Mando’s hand. The strike from the stick hit the space of unguarded muscle on his wrist. He seethed. Mando knew it would bruise. The stick acted like an extension of T’Shankma’s would-be punches or kicks or claw slashes.

Interestingly enough, the thing about their battle that perplexed Mando was how little T’Shankma relied on vision to see. Many times, when it would strike Mando, it wouldn’t be to counter a move it saw, but a move it predicted. T’Shankma almost never looked directly at Mando when trading blows.

The animals didn’t react. Neither did Fenkili. Instead, she walked to a sproutling and plucked an orange fruit. Biting into its juicy flesh and slurping as she watched Mando go toe-to-toe with his well-matched foe. Not equal foe. Well-matched. It was the unfamiliar terrain that brought his downfall.

T’Shankma swept its stick under his legs and Mando tripped backwards. He was about to use his grappling hook to counter when T’Shankma removed the staff from the threatening position above his crotch.

Fenkili clapped and tossed Mando a fruit. T’Shankma thrust the stick into the dry ground, it stood erect like a flag-post without a flag.

“You pass,” T’Shankma signed. “Why do you seek the Hideous One?”

Mando was thrown off by T’Shankma’s use of the third person. More so by the fact the creature could sign. There was something…off about T’Shankma. Its appearance didn’t match its fluid movements. And the place it called home was a stark contrast to what Mando had imagined a creature like it to live in.

Mando grunted, feeling winded. He wound his rotator cuff until the joint popped. Then, he signed in reply: “I need a tracker.”

T’Shankma offered its hand, padded paws joined to blunt claws that looked more like a glove than a hand from the sagging palms. Mando shook it. 


	3. Hunger Pangs of the Heart

Mando was in a vision…or perhaps he was being fed a vision in his sleep. The sight was of a structure viewed through eyes peering in the dark. A flicker of light on the wall. Torches lit with the smell of an oil; almost like the fat of an animal cooking over a camp spit. There were etchings on the walls, carvings of script he wasn't familiar with. Primitive, but with hints of technology—either too old or too new—easily missed in cracks and spaces.

Like a shaky camera turning to the side, the eyes focused on a face. It was Cara. She was asleep. Or maybe unconscious. Then, three little wobbly fingers reached out and a blanket was lifted off the floor and around Cara’s frame.

A gurgling noise of empty stomachs full on water roused Mando from the sleep-vision.

When he opened his eyes under the helmet, he was startled to see T’Shankma holding out a bag. Mando groaned, still groggy and half-aware of his surroundings. T’Shankma shook the bag impatiently. He accepted it tentatively.

In it was food, or what stood for food on that planet. Mando couldn’t think of eating, he just wanted to get the Child back. To be certain his _son_ was safe.

“I’m not—” Mando started to protest.

T’Shankma let out a grunt to silence him and then signed: “Eat. Stomach is empty. Very.”

Mando frowned. He didn’t feel the hunger, nor did he hear the distinct groan of it. He stretched from the padded matt he’d leaned against, ready to protest again.

T’Shankma, anticipating this, groaned and signed with only one hand: “Both cannot be empty. Feed one. The other will follow.” T’Shankma gestured to where Mando’s heart and stomach were, then hunkered lower, head tilting to the side.

One of T’Shankma’s saggy, furry paws reached out to hover close to Mando’s chest. After, it signed: “Burdened. Sad. Eat. Make stomach loud to make heart soft.”

Mando sighed but didn’t want to anger the creature. He nodded his head politely, ripping small pieces off a bread-like baked substance and nibbling under his helmet.

Fenkili burst into the hut no introduction or warning. She looked Mando up and down and pouted. “Damn. I’d hoped I’d catch you with that thing off,” she pointed to Mando’s helmet.

“No such luck,” Mando said, smirking to himself.

“Tell me, the voice match the face?”

“Don’t know.”

T’Shankma appeared again, this time with a bag of supplies and an intricate, hollowed out stave with holes along its length like a flute.

“It’s tracking time,” Fenkili said

T’Shankma was on the ground near the Razor Crest’s crash sight. T’Shankma’s paws that still looked too saggy to Mando’s eyes were flat on the ground, on level with its ears and belly.

Mando was hunkered low, watching the strange creature at work.

Fenkili had walked over to the ship. She whistled, “This yours?”

“Uh-huh,” Mando nodded.

“She’s gonna need a good overhaul,” Fenkili kicked her boot at the ship’s side. Something clamoured to the ground with a loud metallic _ding!_

Mando balled his fists, restraining himself from saying something untoward.

“I know a mechanic in Redport!” Fenkili shouted now that she was inside the Razor Crest, rifling through open compartments. “He charges an arm and a leg just to put nuts and bolts on loose joints, but he’ll get her flying again…Which, by the looks of things, would be an improvement!”

T’Shankma let out an airy groan that sounded frustrated, then signed at Mando: “I need quiet. Can’t focus. Tracks too old.”

Mando nodded and got up from his position, making his way to Fenkili.

“Pretty sure your friend sent me to tell you to quiet down,” Mando looked over the ship now that he wasn’t as shaken. Mentally, he took note of how many repairs needed to be done, and how much it would cost him. His mind kept drifting back to T’Shankma.

In his travels, Mando had met many like Fenkili. She was gruff on the outside and most likely gruffer on the inside. A penchant for looking out for one person: herself. But T’Shankma was a mystery. A blind spot in his mind. A wild card.

He thought back to their battle, how the strange creature had a habit of turning on its ear rather than angling to its eyes.

“Is it blind?” Mando asked.

“Hmmm?” Fenkili looked at him bizarrely. Then, when she saw he was looking at T’Shankma stomp its feet now that it was no longer lying on its belly, she clicked her tongue. “Why do you ask?”

“A hunch,” Mando replied.

“Yes.”

“How does T’Shankma track if it’s blind?”

“T’Shankma is only blind in the way you and I think of it.”

“Hmmm.”

T’Shankma waved them down. Gesturing up to the sky and signing a few words that Mando was certain wasn’t Standard Sign. Seems the creature had improvised some of its sign language. Only Fenkili understood it.

 _They must be closer than they let on,_ Mando surmised.

Fenkili made a frustrated, throaty rattle almost as if she was about to spit phlegm.

“What is it?” Mando asked.

“The tracks, the reason you lost them was because they went up,” Fenkili pointed the business end of her dagger to the top of the canyons and beyond. “Hillside Dwellers.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“Not particularly. They are…strange. Much like T’Shankma, their ways are elusive to many. Language is difficult with them so traders don’t bother with bartering. They live in a temple built into a mountain side. If they took your people, they’ll be there.”

Mando started marching ahead and stopped when Fenkili hesitated to follow, her eyes serious.

“You coming?” Mando said, impatience possessing his voice.

“It is odd. Hillside Dwellers avoid outsiders. To them, everyone on this rock who boarded off a ship is an outsider. They don’t even come near the towns. The only thing they care enough about to leave their homes for—” Fenkili reached under the bodice of her armour to wrap her fingers around a crystal looped around a cord. Her eyes lingered on T’Shankma who was scaling up the side of the canyon to get a better view. When she turned to Mando, she held a hardness across her lined face. For some reason, Mando thought of the Mudhorn and her egg.

“Who are we tracking, exactly?” Fenkili asked.

“My crew,” Mando stated plain as day.

“Then your crew must be special in some way.”

“Yes. We’re a skeleton crew.”

“No. There’s something else.”

“The deal wasn’t to ask me questions. It was a fair trade, a tracker and a job done in return.”

Fenkili sighed, weighing her options as though they weren’t so cut and dry. “Fine. But, if we’re dealing with Hillsiders…we’ll have to do things quietly. We wait for nightfall. Their temple has a tendency to...confuse when the Hillsiders are awake.”

Fenkili whistled, signing to T’Shankma up in the rocks to make camp. Mando’s blaster fingers itched for some reason. Fenkili must have sensed it because she side-eyed his holster and crinkled her nose.


End file.
